Bleak is this time of colour
by nepetation
Summary: Until the day they meet their soulmate, they see the world in black and white. Then everything fills with vibrant colours. When a person's soulmate dies, the colours go too. Bucky Barnes has the displeasure of experiencing this. (Modern soulmate au, stucky)
1. Denial is a bitter thing

Bucky knew Steve's time was limited. As time went on he watched the crisp colours drain back to their original dullness. It was gradual for the first few months- hardly even noticeable. By the time he even realised, all the vibrancy of the world had been sucked away. Bright yellows became muddled and started to look as ayellow marker does when it runs over black ink. When he looked outside he saw dusty looking trees instead of the fresh green of spring. Steve was dying and Bucky sure had a painful way of knowing it.

Blue was one of the first to go completely. When he looked in the mirror that morning, he didn't stare into the deep blue eyes he'd grown used to. They were back to how he'd known them before meeting Steve. His first thought then were that Steve's eyes were also blue, and, with a twist in his gut, realised he'd never again see how deep like an ocean they were. He didn't want to think about the fact that within a matter of time Steve's eyes would close and he'd never see them open again.

No matter what though, he couldn't let on what was happening. Steve'd been told he was dying- it wasn't like he was completely unaware of that. But with his stubborn ways, the punk always insisted he'd be doing backflips out of that hospital. There was no way Bucky could let himself crush that incentive.

"I'm stronger than this," Bucky nodded, feigning agreement as he looked into Steve's dead grey eyes. He couldn't bring himself to speak past the lump forming in his throat, "Been sick before, Buck, so there's no way I'll be letting this cancer get the better of me. Just watch- in a coupla' weeks, I'll be right back home. With you, where I belong."

Bucky could only laugh, though a short and bitter one it was. This was so like Steve: insisting he could win all these battles when he obvious stood no chance. It was one of those endearing parts of him Bucky had fallen in love with. The doctor said he was in denial.

So whenever he asked about Bucky's colours, the younger man would smile and lie, then watch as Steve's face fell into relief. He always felt like his gut was being wrenched when conversations went there.

He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth, more for his own benefit than Steve's. He knew he was being selfish and giving the other false hope, but somehow it helped him to cope. It was like he thought ignoring the issue would make it disappear completely. That didn't work.

The first time Steve asked, months ago, had been a disaster. Bucky had been sitting at the sick man's bed-side, chin resting on his hand and elbow on small fold away table holding what was leftover from that day's lunch. They'd been chatting and laughing, Steve's eyes crinkling at the corners and Bucky's shoulders shaking. They talked about whatever they could think of to keep the mood up, because lets face it- they weren't in the most pleasing environment for a conversation.

Bucky went on and on, with Steve interjecting every so often with a question or sarcastic remark. He told Steve about Michael from junior high, who finally asked that gal of his to marry. They talked about how Bucky's cat shredded his drapes (again). It poured so hard last night, he practically had to swim to get to his car. The neighbourhood kids had a blast stomping in mud puddles. There was a break-in at the shop down the street. Mister Turner cut all the blossoms from his deceased wife's garden and chucked them in the bin.

That last bit of news had left an eerie silence in the room. They both understood the reason behind what he did with the flowers. The old man's wife left, along with his colour; and looking at monochrome flowers she'd planted was downright depressing. Neither one of them said anything for a moment, and Bucky was wondering if he should just pick up the conversation somewhere else, but Steve beat him to it.

He swallowed thickly and gripped his blanket tight, mumbling, "You can still see mine right?" There was a tremor in his voice, one that made Bucky's heart do a flop into his stomach. Why did he have to bring them to that subject?

He looked to the other's dull, grey eyes and flinched at the question. Of course with his arm on the table beside him, a clatter of dish wear on tile soon followed. Steve sat up quick in his bed, eyeing the brown-haired man with worry. Bucky just laughed boisterously, shaking his head and muttering about what a dolt he was. He smiled a little too wide and the thundering sound of his heart echoed in his ears, "You think I wouldn't tell you? 'Course I can see 'em- clear as day, in fact!"

That time he knew Steve believed him. He continued to believe him for a long time, until one day, Bucky couldn't tell the difference between blue and green when Steve asked for a particular coloured pencil. He hesitated before picking one up and giving a brief prayer that it was correct.

"Uh...Buck, I said green," Shit.

"Oh. Oh, you didn't ask for... For um...?"

Steve sighed and shook his head, disappointment flashing over his face, "No, I don't need blue. Not for this one," he muttered, tapping a finger against the sheet of paper in his lap, well more aggressive than necessary.

From then on it was clear that both men where lying about the situation, both to each other and themselves.

Even so, Bucky wasn't prepared when it happened, not long after he got off work that night.

He'd just finished working, bagging groceries as was in his job description. The pay wasn't much but it helped to fill the gaps in the bills where Steve could no longer. Work was slow that day, with leaving him heavy lidded and drowsy with boredom by the time his shift ended.

Natasha, who worked the cash register at his station, clapped a hand on his broad shoulder, jolting him back to alertness and waved her phone at him. "Clint's having a get-together at his place tonight. Think you can come?"

Her lips were pulled into a thin, red smile. The corner twitched when Bucky gave a sluggish 'I dunno'. She clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer. In fact, Bucky knew she wouldn't be satisfied with any answer until he agreed to go. She was always going out of her way to drag his moping ass out of the house, especially now since they found out Steve... was sick. It was like an unspoken rule that they wouldn't mention the cancer, but her intentions were obvious. Why did he even bother putting up a fight if he knew he'd end up seated on Barton's couch within the hour?

"It's Christmas Eve; I'm not letting you spend the holiday getting drunk alone in some bar. That's something you do with friends," She dragged out the last syllable, putting an emphasis on the word 'friends', "There'll be booze. Lots of it. Later we can go up to see Steve," She added through pursed lips.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, not wanting to go, but he gave in despite so. At least he wouldn't have to spend any money on drinks. Anyway, he'd been planning to visit right after work but figured going a little later wouldn't cause any harm since the other wouldn't be going anywhere.

He was proved wrong within twenty minutes of arriving at Barton's apartment. They were having a decent time, cracking jokes at each other's expense and getting into the festive mood. Tony had smacked a Santa hat on Bucky's head the moment he walked in the door. Bucky didn't like the man that much, but he was one of Steve's best friends so he could pretend to get along, It was amazing what he'd put up with for Steve's sake, even with the blond man not being there.

Someone was hollering about a mistletoe as two unsuspecting people stepped underneath it. Bucky turned his attention to the cup in his hand, the golden liquid a murky hue. The cup itself was more brown looking than red like he new it was supposed to be.

Then there was a strain on his eyes and the bland colours that were there disappeared. Bucky felt his body go rigid for a moment; his hand shook, sloshing colourless beer from his cup and wetting the grey carpet at his feet. He looked up and tried to say something but succeeded only in making a sound from the back of his throat, a cross of a growl and a whine. Suddenly the floor came flying up and he couldn't see and he felt water on his face and shirt. Someone was screaming and it took a while for his ears to register that it was his own wailing voice.

A few people dropped to their knees beside him; he felt hands and someone asked what was happening. Bucky couldn't differentiate between the voices around him, or the bodies or questions. Everything was happening miles away from where he was at that moment. It all sounded distant and unfocused, like a radio coming in with static, managing a few clear words here and there.

He couldn't bring himself to respond to anyone; to announce that the world was black and white again. He didn't want to say anything actually, just to scream and wail and beg to see something, just one little but of colour. Panic rose in his chest as he tore his head around, raking his eyes across the room for any shade of pigment. It was all grey, different shades of the same bleak colour. Steve was gone. Dead.


	2. A long time down the way

The last funeral Bucky went to had been for an aunt when he was still a teenager. He remembered how much she looked like she'd been to a taxidermist beforehand, with discoloured skin and unflattering eye makeup. Even in black and white the work was just wrong. A small part of him had expected his aunt, never having been a woman to doll herself up, to jump up and peel the thick application from her face. That part of him couldn't help but become awash in disappointment when she didn't. He couldn't stand seeing her this way. Dead was one thing, but made to look like a life-sized toy? It just didn't sit well with him.

He'd decided then that he didn't just dislike funerals, nor did he hate them. No, he flat out loathed them. Granted, they weren't exactly meant to be high-spirited events, but they were still too damn depressing. To him there seemed no point- he was already in mourning, why make some grandiose event out of it? He would have much rather dealt with the loss on his own terms, but with the broken look in Steve's mother's eyes when she explained her need for his support, Bucky knew he'd be void of alone time for a while.

It would have been nice to say Steve looked the way he did before death, before the cancer, but Bucky had never, never seen the blond man's face drained dry of colour, so that would be a lie. He- like Bucky's aunt all those years ago- also had criminal amounts of makeup, and his body was stuffed in a suit he would have never worn if he'd been alive.

It was obviously an expensive piece, with the material clean cut and fitted snugly to Steve's proportions. It didn't even look second hand, unlike most of the things he and Bucky normally bought with their low wage salaries. Bucky wondered how Steve's family even came to afford it.

His wondering a were pushed aside as the pastor gave his sermon before the crowd of mourners. The brown-haired man sat straight and attentive in his seat, but inwardly blocked out every word. There wasn't much to listen to, he figured. Just some reminiscence over the loss and some misplaced prayers. It'd been a long time, but Bucky knew how funerals worked.

Since Steve's- since Christmas Eve, he hasn't gotten a spark of a moment to himself; it'd already been a week. A week of sympathy calls and envelopes in the mail packed full with condolences. A week spent in a flurry to organise the funeral, comforting Steve's mother over the phone, or just making awkward side talk with those who didn't seem to know when a topic of conversation was well run dry. A week holding the absolute torment and agony of losing

the man he loved more than anything he'd ever come across. Bucky couldn't let anyone see how broken he was- he had people who's grief he had to carry on broad shoulders, he couldn't let them see that he was having a hard enough coping as it was.

With the funeral's end came robotic handshakes and stiff, shoulder soaking hugs as people filed back to their cars. It was hours before Bucky finally got to his own, where he sat in utter silence for so long, he almost thought he'd been sitting parked in his truck for days.

He and Steve had bought the truck together years ago. It was old and beat up, rusting in what could qualify as a junk yard behind someone's house, but it was what they could afford. Any extra cash they could spare went to fixing their ride, from new second hand rims to a nice, deep blue paint job. Days they spent out in the garage together left them with grease streaked across their cheeks and grins wide enough to stretch for miles.

Bucky almost found himself smiling at the memory. Almost. Now the truck was a dark grey, no longer differing in hue from the street or the sky. It just wasn't the same truck anymore.

He didn't leave his apartment for a long time after the funeral because of that. The flashbacks of him and Steve dodging soapy sponges and tossing buckets of cold water while they washed the truck in the summer were to much to bear. Instead he became custom to restless pacing on late nights filled with gloom. After piles of attempts to contact him fell through, even Natasha, as stubborn as she was, began to back off. Weeks and months passed with knocks on the door going ignored.

What was there to see now that Steve was gone? Just a world of no colours, smudged and dulled like an old photograph. It wasn't even the loss of colour in his life he moped over. He couldn't have cared less that he'd never again lay eyes on Nat's fire blazing hair, or the royal shade of purple on Bruce's lucky shirt. He could live with black and white and grey; it was Steve he couldn't live without. So what was left for him to enjoy, without the love of his life by his side?

Everything in the home he and Steve shared drove him deeper into his depression.

Sketches were insistently pinned up in every room, a proud display of Steve's artistic ability. The blond, always so modest about his works, would always have tried to convince Bucky to take them down.

"They aren't that great, really. I mean- look at this," he would say, snapping tape as he pulled a sketch of the view of buildings from their window, "You know I've done much better. Besides, it's at least a year old."

And then Bucky would roll his eyes and take the picture from his hands, carefully taping it back up while he said, "Quit deluding yourself, would ya? I like it. Anyways, years from now you'll be glad I kept these. Just watch."

There were no jovial feelings toward the sketches now; not with out the scratching of pencils on paper, carefully tracing what images Steve's head could hold. Bucky always found his art to be astounding but now found he was hardly able to look at it.

The pain that had wrapped around his heart quickly strengthened its grip. Days he spent out of bed, not much was done aside from the frequent swig from a cheap brandy. It didn't reverse the pain, but managed to null it a great deal and that was enough for Bucky.

Drinking wasn't a new ordeal to him- a known drinker at parties- but to this extend was unheard of when it came to the brunet. The times he wasn't draining a bottle down his throat were spent wither by the toilet or on his back, recovering from a crippling hangover. A great deal of money went to fuelling his formed addiction, causing piles of trouble in the area of finance. This lead to a raising concern in the friends with whom he scarcely had contact with over the years.

"James," no one ever called him by his first name. It was a strange word to him, one that felt wrong on his ears. It was a name he was called only a rare number of times, "you need help."

Bucky could hear the cracks in Natasha's voice, a desperate sound coming from his friend. Occasionally she would succeed in getting him to agree in seeing a therapist or attending rehab. He'd seen at least five specialists over the course of three years through her, all of who's help he decided he could do with out.

"I can quit any time," He'd manage out of his stumbling mouth, a phrase known widely to be used by those facing addiction.

Oh, but Bucky wasn't one of them; he was no addict. That was for sure. He was just... Self remedying, filling in that hole he'd been left with when Steve died. He deserved at least a little moments rest from the anguish in his soul. He insisted on this near every passing day whenever guilt began to bubble in his gut.

Of course, with an addiction such as this, there comes consequence- inevitable, tho unable to have been foreseen.

Whatever made Bucky Barnes think he could drive safely from the bar to his apartment, was surely a whim of his unhealthy need to prove his competence under unlikely odds. He weaved his way down a straight path to his old truck, the continued to weave his way down the rain spattered street. Even a sober person would have trouble navigating through the pelting storm.

The crash happened just a block away from the bar he left. It was a wonder it didn't happen earlier, with all the factors counting against the driver. Bucky's car went straight to a line of parked vehicles, leaving him with the only casualties as a result.

Through an intoxicated haze he could make out split screams. The screams where so loud, like thy were coming from inside the car with him. Then there was the pain. It seemed to sneak up on him, past his barricade of alcohol, and wail on his body repeatedly. Oh, god it felt bone crushing, like he was trapped under an enormous amount of weight.

He hardly had time to comprehend what had happened before panic and shock took over, gradually bringing him away from the pain. The bland grey world began to slip away, becoming darker and darker until all around him was just black.


	3. In spirit and in vain

Whenever it was said that one's life would 'flash before their eyes' when they knocked at Death's door, Bucky expected to see short segments of all the highlighted points in his life. He expected to see himself looking at a first lost tooth, pinched between chubby fingers and smudged with the dull grey of his blood. The moment he flung his graduation cap in the air, one arm slung over the shoulder of Dum Dum, one of his best friends at the time. Or maybe even the day he decided college wasn't his forte and packed his bags for a cross country road trip that only took him a few states over before he was leaden with homesickness and turned write back around. He expected to see the... the time he met Steve.

The very moment when he was slammed with a force of brights and darks and reds and blues, blinking and staring wide-eyed at the scrawny boy whom he'd just knocked off balance in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store. He wanted to see again that shocked expression on the blond's face, the way he knitted his brow together and set his jaw as he scrambled back to his feet, refusing Bucky's outstretched hand. More than anything Bucky just wanted to relive that moment because colour or not, he fell in love with Steve right then and there. Soulmates be damned.

He honestly didnt think he'd see his _entire life_ play out for him. Strange how he thought that all the bad things would be skipped over.

The worst of it all came up in the last few months before Steve died. Five whole years had passed since that moment. That was at least seven since he'd seen him vibrant whole, before the cancer. It seemed like longer to Bucky.

There was a rushing sensation deep inside him, like his entire life was scrambling to get out. Bucky gasped and was shocked to feel no air filling his lungs, and when he brought a hand up to his chest there was no heart beat. It seemed he was suddenly hyper aware of everything that went on around himself. He felt tingling skin and empty veins, he could feel himself leaving his body, crushed and poisoned.

It was freaky as hell, to say the least.

Everything around him started spinning in a whoosh of light and colour, streaks of it running through his vision that left him blinking forcefully. Bucky couldn't feel pain- or anything for that matter- but the whirlwind would have given him a migraine if he could.

Soon everything seemed to slow down and settle, take shape into actual items, people, things he could make out.

He recognised the room with in an instant. There where sketches scattered across the counter by the window, some having been taken to the floor by gravity's hand. He almost found himself smiling to see them, this time in full colour and not the drainage he'd been looking at them as all those years ago. The room was small, crowded with a bed, chair, and wide bathroom, as many hospital rooms are.

Hospital.

The word slammed itself into his skull, forcing himself to look at the being leaning upright in the bed. The sheets smelled strongly of cleaning products. It would probably be safe to assume that the vased flowers at Steve's bed side were meant to mask the smell. Even now they didn't do much good.

A bone-breaking cough sent Bucky's eyes shifting to the figure in the bed. Hair buzzed short to even out the loss from chemo, skin pale- coming closer to a yellow that would make one cringe to see painted across their own- small and frail and just _so sick_ and peering at Bucky with those eyes he'd been trying so _so_ hard to forget. He couldn't get enough now, and stood drenching himself in Steve's image, letting his eyes soak in those blue eyes.

Swallowing down a mass of shock, Bucky finally opened his mouth to speak. "S-Steve-"

"You shouldn't be here."

Bucky's face fell. He creased his brow at the other man, who had shifted to sit straight up in his bed (not without some struggle) and was staring down at the thin blanket clenched in his fists. It was an old quilt, Bucky noted. The one he had given to Steve as a gift from his own mother.

"I... What?" He took a step forward, mind tripping over itself to find answers for all his questions. For one, what did Steve mean by that?

Steve gave him an irritated sigh, as if Bucky had asked that ten times before.

"iHere/i, Bucky," he said again, his voice holding a bitter sadness, "It's not your time yet."

No words passed between them for a long time after that. Bucky swore the space between then lengthened in that time, even though neither of them had moved. The words didn't set well with him; they made him nauseous with realisation. Steve wasn't happy to see him?

He pinched his bottom lip between his teeth. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. He didn't want to have spent half a decade dreaming to see Steve again, only to be slapped in the face because Steve hadn't been felt the same.

So the brunet did what he always did with things he didn't want to deal with- he ignored it. Steve's words and the pain he felt from them were pushed down, making room for him to change the topic.

"Why are you still- still like that?" Steve frowned, knowing full well what Bucky was doing. "Sick, I mean"

"This is how you remember me so..." The smaller man shrugged.

He was right. When Bucky thought of Steve, he was always like this. Sick. Dying. Never the too-bold-for-his-own-good guy he used to know, that part of Steve was always forgotten. That hurt too.

"Oh," was all he could say.

It was stupid really. With all the time that'd passed, one would think to have more to say to the _love of their fucking life,_ but that was all Bucky could find to say. Just 'oh'. Nothing more.

He'd spent so many nights imagining conversations in his head that he would have with Steve is ever given the chance. He would have liked to talk about the hard time he was having to cope, about how he'd been laid off for coming into work late and drunk one too many times, about how much he absolutely _hated _the taste of alcohol and yet couldn't keep himself away from a bottle. About how much he missed Steve.

But now he was quiet.

"You need to stop what you're doing to yourself, Buck." Said man looked up to meet those blue eyes again, which were looking at him with a mix of sadness and worry and disappointment. "It's bullshit, okay? You're killing yourself- ideliberately killing yourself/i- and for what? Do you think I ilike/i seeing you so wasted that you can't even get up off the couch to vomit? I want to be with you, really I do, but..."

He looked away, voice trailing and anger setting his jaw. Steve looked as angry as Bucky felt. Deliberately killing himself? He hadn't thought of it that way before, but now that it'd been pointed out (more like shoved in front of his face), he realised that was exactly what he was doing. Steve was right to be disappointed in him.

"Isn't it a bit late for this? I mean, I _am_ dead right now," Bucky mumbled. He was shocked to see Steve shake his head.

"Dead? Is that what you think you are?" He let out a forced laugh, morphing quickly into a fit of coughs. "Bucky, you're _lucky_ you're not dead."

"W-wait... What? What do you mean I'm not-?"

"The crash didn't kill you," Steve's voice was serious again, "Neither did the alcohol in your system. Miraculously. This is just a near death experience, and I'm here to knock some sense in that stupid head of yours."

"I'm not dead..." The words were sent echoing all around his consciousness, ricocheting off of every other thought. He wasn't dead. That meant he'd eventually he'd wake up, leave Steve behind and return to his fucked up life. This was just a cruel, brief chance to see Steve again.

For a second time Bucky felt like he was going to puke. He didn't want to leave! Not after all the shit he'd been through! He didn't want to go back to that- he wanted to stay with Steve!

"No. No, Steve, I don't-"

"Bucky." Steve's voice was stern and commanded attention, "I'm sorry. You'll be waking up in a hospital soon."

"No no no no no- Steve, please- no," Bucky whispered frantically. He dropped to his knees, chanting and pleading to stay.

Steve only sighed, looking at him from his bed with a faint smile. "Good-bye, Buck. I love you, but don't let me see you again any time soon. Take care of yourself," he mumbled, so that Bucky barely caught it.

Bucky looked up at him, crawled on his knees to Steve's bedside. Tears were streaking down his cheeks, dotting the sheets as he leaned down to kiss Steve. He paused before their lips met, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"Steve..." He said softly, voice hitching in his throat, "I-"

And then, with a snap of light, Steve was gone.

**/AN: I'm so sorry for taking so long with this chapter! Thank you for putting up with me, and I hope you're enjoying this fic so far! I plan to write one more chapter after this one (:**

**Big thanks to my beta, magicsintheair, who has been a great help. She's also been badgering me to work on this after so long, so without her this fic would literally be nothing. Check out some of her fics too! /**


	4. The flames of impulsion

**/AN: I'm not sure if its triggering but the first scene here involves a panic attack, so watch out if that effects you in any way./**

He woke up and felt the burning pain; his bones were splinters wedged in every square inch of his arm; everything was agony and his nerves started screaming before he even opened his eyes and oh dear God, it all just hurt so bad. For a second he swore his heart stopped completely when he tried to move the arm to no avail, as if somehow it were paralyzed yet emitting crushing amounts of pain. In that moment there were ropes braided from his panic around his chest and he couldn't breathe, or if he did each breath tripped over itself, creating a dizzying mess of inha- exhale, inhaleinhale, exhale, inh- until Bucky was forced to slam his eyes shut and try desperately wait for it to pass.

Bucky remembered the first time this happened, when he woke up in a hospital bed and couldn't move his left arm. Naturally, he panicked, having not realized that his arm wasn't even there for him to move. His humorous had been crushed in the actodent, with no chance of recovery as the nurse said after successfully calming the amputee down.

It took a few hours for the denial to pass that time.

By now he'd grown used to mornings like this. While it wasn't everyday that he'd wake up to a panic attack, it did happen often enough that he didn't feel the need to call Dr. Banner, his private therapist. Actually, he almost never called the man, figuring if he had a problem, well why couldn't he take care of it himself? Besides, all expenses were being paid for of course, by that asshole in a suit, Tony. Why? Bucky didn't know, but it wasn't a charity he was going to take with grace.

The only reason he agreed to see Banner was the fact that they lived in the same apartment complex, with the doctor just two floors above. Being the only client Banner actually had, Bucky couldn't easily avoid his appointments, especially when the other man was just an elevator ride away from his door. Then Bucky would stare at his single hand, angry enough to see red (well…) while Banner coaxed words out of him. More like coerced. He didn't want to talk- he never wanted to talk about what went on his head, not now. Banner would always end their time by talking about him getting a prosthetic.

"You can get yourself measured and fitted. It'll make life a hell of a lot easier, trust me. And if money's a problem... " He knew money was a problem, "Well, I'm sure your insurance will cover it." Of course by that he meant Tony.

So no, Bucky would always shake his head, insist he's fine the way he is, eyes darting to the broken dish on the counter, or the cracked screen of his phone, or the armful of books he's dropped and forgotten to move. He couldn't accept other people's help like that- the therapist was bad enough.

Three months had passed since the accident and although the doctors prodded him with empty assurances that he was going to get better, he was still waking to phantom pains and migraines from withdrawal (he's been clean for a good part of two months now, with help from Natasha of course).

There were still days where even waking up was a hassle and he'd wait for Natasha to send Clint over and drag his sorry ass to the floor because there was no way she'd let him lose this job, not after all the trouble she went through to get it for him. Some days he couldn't stop moving, bouncing a leg, drumming his fingers, pacing, he just couldn't sit still, but moving only made the migraines worse, so all he could do was take some pills and hope to God that they'd work at neutralizing the pain, rather than dulling it to a mild throbbing. They never do, leaving him snappy and intolerable for most others to be around.

But those are the effects of withdrawal from the addiction he had has, and damn him if he wasn't going to tough out this misery. It's what Steve would have wanted after all.

Steve.

Steve.

It'd been a long time since that name crossed his mind. Not that two weeks is very long, but for Bucky, who even after close to six years justcouldn't stop thinking about those graphite smudged hands, the eye-crinkling smile, the low singing in the shower when Steve practiced for his silly street side quartet, the sound of his voice, the way he smelled, the color in his face before Bucky lost that part of him, the-

Bucky knew moving on would be difficult.

Their truck had been sent off to rust in a junkyard by this time- he wasn't allowed to drive now anyway. The bedroom they'd shared was under permanent lock so he wouldn't have to worry about looking at the grey walls and grey sheets where he and Steve used to sleep. Bucky hadn't opened that door in nearly four months, and then he'd ended up relapsing, waking up outside the bathroom door with vomit on his shirt and alcohol soaking his mind.

The one thing (or perhaps various things) he hadn't hidden from himself yet was Steve's artwork, which even now was taped and pinned to the walls in nearly every room.

There was no way Bucky could avoid looking at them, nor could he tune out memories of Steve's humble arguing: "They really aren't that great; why do they have to go on the wall? That one? Really? It's an old soup can, I did that in under five minutes! C'mon, take these down!"

A few weeks after they first moved in together, Bucky had started pinning the other man's art on the wall. Anything he made up, no matter the subject, medium, or quality. After all, to Bucky, they were all masterpieces. "I don't know whose art work you're looking at, but these are incredible! They deserve to be looked at! Yes, Steve, even the soup can, put it back."

For he would find pictures layed on the table, some tucked between books on a shelf, hidden in coat pockets. Of course he'd just go around the house put them back up. Sometimes he even glued them to the wall. It was one of those friendly fights they had with each other. Steve would take down a handful of his drawings and hide them. Bucky would search them out and put them back up.

Thinking about Steve and his drawings was really draining.

Bucky didn't realise that he was staring at one of the pictures until his hand held it, ripped and crumpled in his hand. It was a watercolor of a flowery field. It'd been so long since he really looked at these, he couldn't even remember what colors everything was supposed to be. Maybe this bottom corner was red? Oh, who'd ever heard of red grass? Though it was the same shade of grey as the shirt he was currently wearing… was he even wearing the red one?

Trying to piece together the shades like this was pointless. He'd tried before, years ago, for maybe a month after Steve's death. He wouldn't even admit now how in denial he'd been at that point, even after Steve was set in a box and piled high with dirt all around. Matching up shades of grey with things for which he already knew the colours. It worked for a while, matching a ball to the truck, a cup to to a curtain, a tie to a bath towel. But of course even specific colours come in different shades, and trying to differentiate between every slight one was impossible.

At that moment, after over half a decade, it hit him. He couldn't appreciate Steve's art the way he used to. What contrasted before now blended together. Every picture was just a repeat of the last, black and white and the greys in between. All they even served to do was taunt him on what he no longer had. No more hunts for Steve's hidden artwork; no more slow jazz or swing music playing on the record player in the mornings; no more burnt homemade pizza's; no more arguing over who'd order take out because dear God the crust is inedible; nothing was here anymore, just Bucky, the drawing's and… nothing.

He was supposed to be moving on, right? Wasn't that what Steve told him to do?

Bucky made his resolve then. With a sweep of his hand, a dozen or so papers were ripped from the wall. Some had ripped corners still hanging my the tape and tacks he'd put them up with. Having no other hand to hold them with, he let them drop, spreading across the hard floor. More and more pages came down. All of them, yes, even the ones in their room, every single one was ripped down in anger. He gathered the pages up in his arm and… well now what?

He'd taken them down but he sure as hell couldn't keep them. If he shut them in a box, he'd only be tempted to look. And somehow the trash didn't sem final enough. If he was going to let go, he had to go all the way. Fire was the only way to go.

Of course he wasn't going to set the pages on fire like this, that'd be stupid. He had neighbors after all, and why should their lives and home be put at risk because of his deprecating actions? Things like this were what fireplaces were made for.

Lighting the fire was a struggle with only one hand, especially since he only had matches. He quickly wondered if a prosthetic would make it easier, and immediately hissed at himself for being so pathetic. He could do this on his own.

He was crying by the time it was lit, building the flames on pages that were quick to turn to ash. God, he just wanted to be okay again, no more crushing sadness, or jittery anxiety, or sympathetic gazes, or emptiness, or the inability to even stir some sugar into his coffee. All of it, he just wanted all of it to go away. He was desperate for something good to happen, for some sort of closure. He just wanted to be happy again. Together. Independent of Steve's friends' money and time and worry.

The papers were falling into the fire faster than they could burn, until he wasn't even throwing them in, they were just falling on their own. One after another. Two at a time. Pile following pile.

With the last one he almost felt as if something had been lifted from his shoulders. The walls weren't trying to suffocate him now. He was out of breath somehow, shoulders heaving as he watched the flames flicker against rough sketches.

Steve's sketches.

Steve's sketches.

What… had he done?

The last pieces of Steve's he had, Steve's own creations and he had just burned them all. Every single picture held a piece of Steve- his heart, talent, his goodness- and now it was all ash and smoke. He'd destroyed something so significant in their lives- no, in Steve's life. In the most cliche way of thinking, his art was his legacy. And it was a legacy that Bucky Barnes just ruined out of spite of his own self loathing. A legacy he'd always built up on a pedestal and in the end threw away like it was garbage.

The regret and anguish that followed out did the pains from his missing arm that morning. But even worse was knowing that he needed to do this. He walked over to the window and opened the curtain. The sun hit his face, the warmness reminding him of Steve's smile. But he pushed that thought away and basked in the sunlight. Steve wasn't in his life anymore. It was time Bucky learned to accept that, regardless of how difficult that would be.

**/AN: FIVE MONTHS OH MY GOD. I'm deeply sorry to all of you who've been waiting for this chapter. Part of the reason its so late is partly due to technical difficulties, but I'm not gonna deny the procrastination on my part '-';;**

**As always, this chapter has been beta'd by magicsintheair, who also writes incredibly good fan fiction I highly rec to you all!**

**Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this fic, and for motivating me to continue what was meant to be a oneshot! I'm glad I added on to it, even if it did take my an obnoxiously long time to update.**


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